Page 89 of The Shade of Things
20
The elderly artistgreeted me on Tuesday morning, flinging the door open in a cloud of rose perfume, the gold bracelets on her chiffon sleeve quivering in indignation. “What have you done?”
Was she mad about Jason Maxwell? Had she faced retaliation of some sort due to my actions? Or worse, was this about the Ascendant? I twisted my hands around, my head bowed in anticipation of a magic thrashing. “I—well—look, things were very difficult and—”
Tatiana flung a hand at me. “Cookies,” she seethed. “I am not paying her to have a tea party.”
I blinked. “Say what?”
“Marjorie. She was so happy to see that golem of yours—”
“I don’t legally own him, nor did I create him so—”
“That she showed up this morning with cookies for him. They’re having tea in my garden. Three years that girl’s been with me, and how many times have I gotten cookies?” Her raspy New Yorker accent grew heavier.
“I’m going to go with zero.” I blotted my brow, relieved this wasn’t about me, and slipped past her into the foyer to kick off my sandals. “You also abuse her on a regular basis.”
“Pshaw. It’s character building.” She slid her oversize glasses up her nose. “Good God, Miriam. Why did you raid a flour sack factory? Am I not paying you enough to buy real clothing?”
My ankle-length sundress and yellow cardigan were perfectly nice. “You’re not paying me enough to build my character.”
“Don’t be such a snowflake.” She seated herself on one of the sofas in her living room like a queen.
The windows were thrown open to the sun, the row of plants, some flowering, some with broad, waxy leaves, lending a hothouse-level humidity and rich, earthy scent to the otherwise elegant room. Tatiana had switched out the painting in the position of pride over the mantel from the one of Jackie Onassis from the Dollhouse Collection to a vibrant abstract with geometric shapes heavy with bold golds and oranges.
I tilted my head. “It’s a face.”
“A self-portrait.”
“I only see crow’s feet when I look in the mirror.” I sat down.
Tatiana gave a throaty chuckle. “Then you’re not looking hard enough for who you really are.”
“Have you spoken with Deputy Chief Constable Esposito?”
“Yes. Ohrists trying to turn Sapiens into hosts. This is bad business.” She toyed with a bracelet. “Thank you for helping Laurent.”
“Of course. Did you speak to him today?”
“No. He’s holed up and not answering. Emmett told me.” Tatiana rearranged two decorative cushions, eventually settling them back into their original places.
I tapped my fist against my thigh. I was doing my best to wait for him to call first but it was hard.
“What was the lead you went after, bubeleh?”
“The man running the gambling side of things.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And?”
You stole their door opener to the bad place.
But I couldn’t say that. Not to Tatiana, possibly ever, and certainly not when I didn’t know how much she knew about the Ascendant and what it really did.
She’d spent three years searching for it, so it was fair to assume that she’d learned of its nature. What had she thought about handing it over to Arlo, her client? Would she really be willing to do anything for the money? Would she be one of those Ohrists who’d just hole up and wait it out while humans fell victim to dybbuks?
Any guilt over not sharing my parents’ role in her car crash eased. My black-and-white views about secrets and betrayal no longer felt as solid in the face of her dooming humanity by being part of Arlo’s power-mad scheme to “fly with the angels.”
I’d made allowances for every instance where Tatiana prioritized a paycheck over ethics, but this was too far. My search for the Ascendant had become as much about absolving Tatiana—and my parents—as the artifact itself.
